Chapter Eleven

As soon as Whitcombe was out of sight, Eleanor emerged from her hiding place, dashed across the terrace, then slipped back into the drawing room.

What a fool she'd been! She should have declared herself as soon as he'd come outside, but she had been paralyzed with fear at the thought of being so close to him. The longer she waited, the worse it became, until she would have looked an utter fool had she made her presence known.

And then…

Then he uttered the words that sliced her heart in two.

"Oh, Lady Arabella. How little you know of my heart!"

She was a fool to believe him different to the rest of them—with their arrogant disdain of anything and anyone beneath them. And yet…

And yet, when he'd leaned on the balustrade and looked out over the garden, his profile illuminated in the moonlight, Eleanor could swear she caught a flicker of emotion in his expression—a softening about the eyes that, while slight, was discernible to someone who'd spent so long observing him in silence, and capturing every expression, every emotion, on the page with her pencil.

And then the care with which he'd lifted the little hedgehog and held it so tenderly…

Stop being such a fool!

Once more she'd let herself be ruled by hope—a hope that far exceeded the harsh reality that he was, and would always be, insurmountably far above her.

Eleanor crossed the drawing room floor—skirting around the dancers—to find solace beside a large aspidistra in a corner. She drew her chair closer to the plant so she'd be partially obscured by the foliage, then sat and closed her eyes.

The loss of one sense calmed the storm in her mind. The clash of colors at parties always overwhelmed her. In contrast, the moonlight outside muted the colors, bathing the landscape in a cool blue light. Of course, it wasn't done to spend the duration of a party standing outside, away from everyone else.

Sadly.

The dance concluded, followed by a ripple of applause, and Eleanor opened her eyes.

The duchess was approaching her, a glass of red liquid in her hand.

"You look in need of refreshment, Miss Howard," she said. "I took the liberty—I trust you don't mind?"

"Why would I mind, Your Grace?"

"Some might consider it an imposition to assume. You're at liberty to refuse."

Eleanor took the glass, and the duchess sat beside her.

"It's noisy tonight," she said. "I'm not partial to crowds. I much prefer someone of a quieter disposition."

"Do you?" Eleanor asked. "Mother is always telling me I should speak up more at parties—that a young woman needs to be entertaining if she is to succeed. But I can never think of anything to say that others would find interesting."

The duchess placed a hand on Eleanor's arm. "My dear, there will always be those who appreciate what you have to say. For example, I hear you have some understanding of art. I'd appreciate your opinion on a Stubbs we have in the morning room."

"A Stubbs—a real one?"

The duchess laughed. "I hope so, though I overheard Countess Fairchild telling Lady Blessingham it must be a forgery. I believe I offended her when I married too far above my station. But disparity of rank is no reason not to marry when you're in love."

Unless the man you love doesn't know you exist.

Eleanor sighed.

"Oh, forgive me," the duchess said. "I didn't mean to distress you."

"It's nothing," Eleanor said. "I—"

"Jeanette!" a voice cried. "Over here, child, and play for us. The young people wish to dance to ‘Mr. Beveridge's Maggot.'"

"Coming, Grandmama." The duchess rose. "I'll leave you in peace, Miss Howard. But if you do wish to dance, my stepson would be happy to oblige. He tells me you were very kind to him at dinner."

"I prefer not to dance," Eleanor said. "I mean—I wish I wanted to dance, but the only time I did, I trod on my partner's toe."

"Perhaps your partner placed his toe in the wrong place."

"Jeanette!" the dowager cried.

"Please excuse me." The duchess returned to the pianoforte, while the couples accumulated in the center of the room.

Then the terrace doors opened, and…he appeared.

Eleanor's heart somersaulted in her chest as he swept his cold blue gaze about the room before settling on Lady Arabella Ponsford, who stood, head upright, exuding confidence as she made a show of fanning herself.

"Montague!" a sharp voice said. Whitcombe's mother approached him and took his elbow. She hissed something in his ear, and his eyes darkened until they were almost black. She seemed to be admonishing him while gesturing toward Lady Arabella. He shook his head and gave a sharp response.

The music started, and the couples began to dance. Disappointment soured Lady Arabella's expression, then Westbury approached her and offered his hand, and they joined the dance.

Whitcombe and his mother continued to argue until he let out an exclamation.

Then he strode across the room, cutting through the dance. The couples dispersed with cries of protest, but Whitcombe ignored them and continued his path in quick, powerful strides. Fear rippled through Eleanor as she realized he was looking in her direction, and she glanced either side, but there was nobody close by.

Heavens—he was walking straight toward her!

He stopped less than two feet away, and she glanced up, her stomach flipping at the determined expression in his eyes.

For what felt like an eternity, she met his gaze, fighting the urge to flee, while the world around them seemed to fade into oblivion. Then she realized that the dancing had stopped, and the crowd had formed a semicircle around the two of them.

Lord help me! They're all staring at me.He's staring at me!

Her palms grew slick under his scrutiny, and a nugget of desire pulsed thickly inside her body.

What was happening?

Then he lowered himself to one knee.

"Miss Howard," he said, his voice filling the drawing room, "will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?"